“We’ll have to try it,” said Hornblower. “She’ll never do as she is. We’ll have to trim her so that she draws six inches more aft. At least that. Now, what is there we can shift aft?”

“Well—” began Bush.

In his mind’s eye he called up a picture of the interior of the Hotspur, with every cubic foot crammed with stores. It had been a Herculean feat to prepare her for sea; to find room for everything necessary had called for the utmost ingenuity. It seemed as if no other arrangement could be possible. Yet maybe—

“Perhaps—” went on Bush, and they were instantly deep in a highly technical discussion.

Prowse came up and touched his hat, to report that Hotspur was just able to make good the course for Ushant. Bush could hardly help but prick up his ears at the mention of the name; Prowse could hardly help but be drawn into the discussion regarding the alteration in the trim of the ship. They had to move aside to make room for the hourly casting of the log; the breeze flapped their coats round them. Here they were at sea; the nightmare days and nights of fitting out were over, and so were the—what was the right word? Delirious, perhaps—the delirious days of marriage. This was normal life. Creative life, making a living organism out of Hotspur, working out improvements in material and in personnel.

Bush and Prowse were still discussing possible alteration in the ship’s trim as Hornblower came back into his present world.

“There’s a vacant port right aft on each side,” said Hornblower; a simple solution had presented itself to his mind, as so often happened when his thoughts had strayed to other subjects. “We can bring two of the forward guns aft.”

Prowse and Bush paused while they considered the matter; Hornblower’s rapid mind was already dealing with the mathematics of it.